


Tonight, You’re Spending Time With Me

by Bidawee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Biting, Goalies, Goalies Are Weird, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nesting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 04:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: He was happy helping Freddie out with his compulsion during the offseason, honestly, but it’d been three days since he’d been allowed to go outside and now he was thinking nesting with his goalie may not have been the best idea.





	Tonight, You’re Spending Time With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Goalies and Nets (Nests)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808970) by [Nadler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadler/pseuds/Nadler). 



> Wow, this doozie is done, thank goodness. I spent a lot of early mornings writing this so there's bound to be a few errors. If you catch any, let me know!  
> Put a dubious consent warning up just in case but beyond biting there is no sexual content.

_At 10:23pm, the text rang through: loud and demanding._

It was sent in the group chat on the bus without any explanation, and beside him, Zach stiffened with proper jurisdiction because what the fuck. Deciphering it was the equivalent of looking at Egyptian hieroglyphs when Freddie was the sender. But, from the looks of it, Freddie was angry about how the team played: again.

And Connor couldn’t blame him this time, they did let the Devils slip through the cracks of their defence again. Connor had played so badly he wouldn’t be surprised if he was tweeted at in twenty minutes time about a new career opportunity on the Canadiens with a life spent donning red, white, and blue to the jeers of Leafs fans. But all that aside, hockey was a team sport and Freddie was being cold.

And yeah, he’d overheard the trainers throwing the word nesting around, but nesting was always an over glorified excuse for goalies to pamper themselves with blankets and chocolate. They could kick their feet up and relax while the rest of the team underwent a slow healing process that often pit them against themselves.

And Connor didn’t want to sound ungrateful because Freddie was the big team player, but the goalie was at the back of the bus, knees pulled up to his waist like an over glorified turtle. Auston was trying to pat his shoulder and in ended in Freddie making a biting motion that scared the hand away. Again, what the _fuck_.

It went unspoken that when the bus pulled up in the commercial lot Freddie was given priority. He stomped out of the bus, shoulders hitting seats and powering through regardless. The trainers formed a semicircle and chased after him, leaving a bewildered team.

“What’s up with him?” Mitch questioned, chin resting on the top of the seat in front of him, eyelids drooping.

“Nesting,” Zach answered. “I think we’re losing him for the week.”

“No reason for him to act all huffy,” Connor said, under his breath. Zach still elbowed him.

“Don’t be mean. It’s hard.” So, _so_ hard. Oh the horrors of sinking into the mattress and being unbothered by the media. If that was all it took, well, slap some goalie pads on him ( _please no_ , he said in his head, because he didn’t want his face ravaged by slapshots thank you very much).

Zach seemed pessimistic about it, but the confusion was widespread among the juniors. Mitch, in particular, was ogling from the window as the trainers tried to talk down Freddie, only stopped by Auston standing up to yank him back down into his seat. Willy was plastered to Kappy, trying to look over from his spot on the opposite side of the bus. The aisle was crowded with legs sticking out, players kneeling and _hoping_ to get a look, like Freddie was a Siberian tiger set free from its cage.

Freddie cleared out about ten minutes later, prompting an exodus from the bus immediately after. Tensions were still high--some people couldn’t look at each other--and it made the departure all the more stressful. Connor at least managed to give Zach a small wave, him being probably the only teammate not pissed beyond belief with his performance.

Connor hung around the edge of the crowd as he waited for his baggage, not wanting to deal with anyone. Most of the teammates hightailed it out of their as soon as they possibly could, leaving him alone to heave his overnight bag with him. A hand tapped his shoulder just as he hefted the strap over his back.

It was one of the members of the medical staff, but the name evaded him at that moment. All he could do was gape, head feverishly trying to put a description to the face. It was a doctor, he was certain about that. He was so tired he couldn’t see straight let alone extrapolate the energy to do something he couldn’t do even at peak performance.

“Hello Connor, how’re you doing?” he asked.

“Terrible,” he answered honestly. “I’m tired.” The name came to him in a blink. _Dr Bettle_. That was it.

“I know, and you’ll have the whole offseason to take a rest, but I need to ask a favour of you.” He could groan, he didn’t _want_ to run errands. He wanted to smush his face into his covers and enter a five-month coma.

He yawned instead. The message didn’t exactly get across.

“What’cha want,” he slurred, rubbing at one eye, because if his mother taught him anything, it was to be polite at all times.

“Andersen forgot his wallet on the bus. Could you ferry it over to him? Dermott doesn’t know the way.” And beyond the last name usage which made them sound like patients as opposed to teammates, he sort of understood. Sort of. Freddie was a resigned guy (usually) and on top of that, a millionaire. Why of all nights was he obliged to help _now_?

“Sure,” he said though, because his tongue and brain weren’t connected so it seemed. Dr Bettle handed him the leather wallet, but then steadied Connor with a hand on the shoulder that was more menacing than casual.

“While you’re at it, take this too.” And he dropped a whole ‘nother bag in Connor’s hand, this one made of that reusable plastic and owning several threatening-looking bottles inside the body. “Just drop it by the door. Don’t knock or go in. If he’s there, don’t make eye contact.”

“Because he’s nesting?” he found himself asking, and was answered with a nod. Cryptic, as per the usual.

So now he was playing mailman, on the highway with only eight hours of sleep banked trying not to drive straight into oncoming traffic. Freddie had been over to his house more than Connor had his, so he drove slower, trying to dig deeper into his subconscious to pull the route out from thin air.

 

Miraculously, he found it after thirty minutes of stumbling about. All the lights inside the condo were out or the curtains were pulled close; he came off as a recluse. Every other unit on the block had some semblance of life pertaining from inside but Freddie’s was radiating do not disturb vibes from metres away, the perimetre dangerous and lacking much kineticism.

Connor wasn’t a wuss, but it did have him slightly nervous, knowing some players got aggressive or became shut-ins as a result of playoff losses. It was a series of him fighting the inner panic telling him to go home and getting the motivation to retrieve the bag from the passenger seat and walk up to the unit’s door.

And while Bettle _had_ advised him to leave the bag and wallet outside of the door and leave immediately it seemed like a recipe for disaster leaving a wallet outside. Less obvious was the inner desire to knock just because he was still feeling guilty about the game’s turnover and the last thing he wanted was Freddie holding a grudge against him. If by chance the team _was_ going to go through with trading him, spending some time with Freddie might not be a bad idea. Nesting partners on other teams always got a protective shield around the trade deadline that he could look at with thinly veiled admiration.

Moreover, from his experience, goalies tended to always take the loss hard and if Freddie wanted to pout that was fine but he at least deserved one friend on his side.

Even if he was the reason that last goal got through.

He gave the door a hesitant knock, the sound reverberating around the room, lacking any subtlety. The reusable bag in his hand was heavier than it should have been and it swung lifelessly behind him as he heard the footsteps increase in volume from behind the oaken barrier holding him in place. There was a heave from the door frame, and then the knob skirted away, an abyss of darkness opening and revealing a solemn face.

It was the square-jawed, squinty-eyed Freddie, but his complexion was ghostly pale. The stubble of his chin was more pronounced, sideburns flecked with sprinkles of bright ginger. He was looking at Connor and the subsequent swinging bag with undisguised balefulness. It made him want to melt into the floorboards.

“Hi,” he said, having to clear his throat because of the frog caught in it that was making him croak.

“Hi,” Freddie said back, voice containing as much personality and colour as a pile of sawdust.

“Uh--the trainer--Bettle, wanted me to give you this.” He handed Freddie the bag, but Freddie did not reciprocate by grabbing it. He looked on, scrutinizing the plastic particle by particle before eventually extending two fingers to pinch the handle like he was picking up a used tissue.

The bag made a thump behind Freddie when he dropped it out of view of the door, but he did not shut Connor out as expected. Instead, he lingered, still nailing Connor to the wall with his look.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come in?”

Freddie paused, almost dramatically in hindsight. But then, after a moment of close reevaluation, he yielded with a “yes.” Connor followed obediently, the sound of the door clapping its hinges promiscuously loud.

“So, how are you coping?” Connor began, mindful of how his voice echoed in the absence of any other noise in the complex. That, and the fact none of the lights in the living room were on, only made Freddie's obscure behaviour shoehorn out.

“Good,” Freddie replied, curt, and without room for argument.

Connor took refuge on the plush living room couch, the pillows typically decked out completely missing, leaving it a bare mimcry of what it once was. “We’re--uh, gonna miss you.”

“Yes.”

Connor’s hand ravaged his hair. Pulling. Tugging. Nipping the skull with the curved nails. “And we're so sorry. You deserved the cup more than anyone else and I'm sorry we let you down.”

Freddie acknowledged it with a curt nod and nothing more.

“And I don't want you to blame yourself. You shouldn't have to.”

“Okay.”

“And--well, I'm not good at pep talks.” That much should be obvious by then; leave it to Mo, or Babs, or literally anyone else on the roster with a spec of maturity to hold down the angsting. “But I wanted to say thanks for a great season.”

“Okay.”

Crooked in posture, Freddie resembled something like a diagonal bird feeder; waist narrow and closed in comparison to his broad shoulders and thick neck. His beady eyes were stalking Connor whenever he so much as inched to the side, pecking away at his self-conscious until Connor was squirming. Over the coffee table, Connor could see he had both hands covering the expanse of his knees, joints flexing, denim hunched up from where he was pulling at it.

Inside of his stomach, Connor's heart hiccuped. The vibrations rattled all of his internal organs. A bloodied shake and bake was erupting inside of his intestines.

“I know you wanted to be alone so I'll--uh, leave you to it.” He made the mistake of jolting his shoulders up much too quickly for Freddie's eyes to distinguish. As such, Freddie was then growling, and oh shit he was _growling_.

That hit a nerve, something dark inside of Connor’s conscience that made the blood drain to his feet. It became apparent that the inner workings of Freddie were disconnected. A little voice in the back of his head was telling him to stand up and run, but it felt like the makings of a disaster. Freddie’s eyes were pinning him to the couch like nails on a cross.

“Well--uh. I’d better get going. You stay good, ‘kay?” he tried, but it prompted no discernible look or change in stance. Freddie continued to look like a predator ready to pounce, and the belief that Connor had intruded on something incredibly personal was sinking into his pores.

Just as he was rushing to stand, the brunt of his knee clipped the edge of the table and a yelp was torn from his throat. He bent over and clamped his hands down on the spot of impact, trying to stifle the pain and immense shock that had scraped the underside of his spine when he hunched. Beside him, Freddie straightened as if struck, two hands reached out, wanting, _eager,_ to help, but restrained by some invisible force.

Connor steadied him. “I’m fine,” he spat out, waiting out the ache that was budding in his kneecap. But Freddie was not deterred. His hands slapped Connor’s away, edging closer to press down where the pain was and let Connor hang on the edge of his shoulder. The change of body position made Freddie kneel in front of him, and it was awkward having to throw his balance around without giving Freddie too much of his weight or leaning too suggestively because Freddie was practically puffing on his crotch.

But it was hopeless, there just wasn’t enough room, and that was the first motive for him to try and escape the touching but it grasped at him. It crept up his thighs and stomach, hands latching onto his sides as Freddie unfolded like a bird of prey: his wings extending out and pressing Connor’s chest inwards until his breathing clipped.

What succeeded was a mishmash of movement, gasping and grunting as Connor was hefted over Freddie’s shoulder. The ground disappearing under his feet was the first shock, followed after by the hectic pace that Freddie was moving at down the hall. He couldn’t even begin to make sense of his positioning or try to decipher the panic in his thoughts because before he knew it he was in the master bedroom and the door was closed behind him, shrouding him in a cloak of darkness.

Inside, he could see nothing, but he understood something was wrong. He swung lifelessly behind Freddie, mind not yet caught up in the hysterics before Freddie leaned forward and he fell, gracelessly, to the bedding beneath them. He bounced on the mattress, aided by the momentum of the fall, and realized he was laying in a swamp of blankets.

The different textures washed over his sense of touch and confused whatever image of the master suite he had instilled in his mind, made worse by his eyes still struggling to adjust to the change in brightness. At least now he could spot the difference between himself and the window, the way the light that glimmered from the street lamps was cast out by the drawn blinds. The silhouettes pranced in his line of sight, showcasing the towering objects that surrounded the bedpost like watch hounds.

He’d hoped to get a minute to collect his bearings but time was not something Freddie was willing to give him. In the time since he’s conversed with Connor it appeared he’d lost all figure of speech, a multitude of weird, snarling, animalistic onomatopoeia taking over as his vocabulary. Just uncurling his leg from where it was tucked into his hip got a growl, and it snaked back immediately, body tense as it anticipated an attack.

Freddie’s weight had the whole mattress slouching over on one side, Connor scooting back on his elbows to give himself room. Those broad hands of Freddie's were closing in, ensnaring Connor’s arms and pulling him forward so that he could be rearranged on his back. Spread eagle, Connor gulped audibly, unsure of what he could do or what Freddie was planning. His voice too had mysteriously vanished in the ensuing pursuit.

So unsurprisingly, he couldn’t voice his objections when Freddie lopped over and mashed Connor into the bed with his pectoral muscles. Now, while Connor wasn’t the resident dwarf of the team Freddie was a goalie. A broad, thick, heavy goalie. And he was laying on top of Connor, face down so that his nose was tickling Connor’s Adam’s apple and legs careening out in both directions to straddle the smaller man with a starfish-like corset.

The posing had Connor’s lungs struggling to get sufficient air, the press from above severely limiting their mobility. His ribs were quivering in their place, fighting with all their might to hold off the intruder intent on pelting him with muscle from every angle.

His first instinct was to shove a hand down his front pocket and retrieve his phone and do God knows what with it; anything, so long as it granted a millimetre more space between him and the towering shape drowning him in memory foam. It was hard enough dislodging Freddie’s arms but by the time he could sling his right arm behind his back to thumb at the edge of the case he was fatigued from minutes of thrashing. It also proved fruitless to be using it regardless, because seconds later Freddie was smacking it out of his hand--the moment the screen flickered to life, showing him his notifications.

The phone was instantaneously smothered with a pillow, kept out of sight and out of mind. The pressing from above continued.

“Freddie,” he wheezed. “Freddie, I can’t breathe.” His hands slithered down the goalie's broad chest, trying to find a spot to press that would make it stop. Everything hurt. His body wasn’t meant to lift a 230-pound goalie for as long as it was.

There was a disturbing feeling probing in the back of his mind that _this_ was nesting in its entirety. Not the platonic sleeping, the snuggling stuffed animals, and fast food indulgence he expected. What he was getting was the absolute opposite of a middle school sleepover and it terrified him. The objections once blooming from the back of his subconscious to use nesting as leverage were spat back with unimaginable acidity. 

To his credit, Freddie _did_ move. A bit. Not enough to be shoved off but now accommodating to let Connor suck in some much-needed oxygen to replenish his lungs with. His nostrils were working overtime, fluttering and eventually succumbing to mouth breathing when his lungs continued to cry out in pain. He got desperate, starting to kick and lash out, shoving at Freddie evermore and beginning to use his nails to get a firm grip. Freddie grumbled, his scolding increasing in volume as the alarm clock inside of Connor blared at top volume. Said warning went unheeded. 

Needless to say, the blash of fright resolved with Freddie’s teeth sinking into Connor's shoulder.

It wasn’t a shallow nip either. The front teeth actually made a bit of progress and he felt every inch of it. It sent his brain into overdrive, a new push of adrenaline making him scream without a care for who heard. He wanted someone to hear the whimpering and come knocking if only to give him space for just a minute.

He was too panicked to stop moving so the biting continued up and down his top chest and shoulders, sometimes daring to come close to his neck. They weren’t hickeys, not really. The skin around the bites was always a white that faded out to an angry red and it didn’t come accompanied with the burst of pleasure he anticipated when it came to lips hovering around his upper torso.

Well, maybe it _did_ come with a burst, but it wasn't pleasuring. It was that same damned adrenaline that made him feel as though he’d chugged two litres of coffee. And it came alive whenever Freddie came within biting distance of his skin. If he was set free he could probably run a triathlon; he didn’t doubt it.

“Ah, Freddie,” he tried, notwithstanding. “Freddie, stop. Stop Freddie.” And he did stop, but not after giving Connor a look. The same baleful look from when he had opened the door earlier. An added warning. Connor nodded to placate the goalie, not wanting to feel his wrath again, and settled down, hoping cooperation would help his plight.

Freddie settled down too, actually getting off of Connor, to the latter's surprise. The momentary freedom was soon interrupted by two muscled arms come up from underneath his armpits and tugging him flat against the goalie’s chest. The move disturbed some of the bites, which ached at the impact and rub against the foreign skin.

By that point, he was too tired to care if he was the little spoon; didn’t even know what it was. He was just happy he wasn't stolen away by asphyxiation. And that Freddie was preferring to sniff at his shoulder rather than take a bite of it. The added head combined with the lethargy from the bus was a toxic concoction that stole his consciousness in mere minutes.

 

The crush between the body and the blankets sapped the oxygen from Connor’s lungs, leaving him destitute without relief. It’s hot, achingly so, and made more apparent by the closeness of their bodies. Perspiration was sticking to Connor’s shirt where Freddie’s arm was clamped down, keeping them glued together. His nostrils were thick, the closeness simulating the experience of waking up with a bad cold.

It became a marathon of ideas being thrown at the wall, seeing what would stick. Freddie, the previous night, hadn’t looked inclined to listen to anything Connor could brew up, which further validated his decision to lie flat and let the worst of the storm blow over. Still, stranded at a teammate’s house was not ideal, especially without a clean change of clothes or a phone to make courtesy calls with. His mother was probably worried sick; he’d promised to call her as soon as he got back to his condo. There was something to be said about breaking a promise with a member of the Brown family, and he couldn’t deny it could turn ugly fast if she suspected foul play.

Judging from the light steadily playing into the room, it was still early morning. Pink hues were contaminating the yellow, an orange sherbet flavour coming to mind with how it meshed with the colour coordination of the room. It was nice, suspiciously clean, with the duvet and comforter being the only things disturbed by the abundance of bodies weighing them down. The rest was wiped clean, with not even a scratch to suggest the owner of the house was absent in his care.

Ominous was another word to describe it. There was nothing to say Freddie had committed a murder and had ensnared Connor for being a witness, but at the same time, there was nothing to say he _hadn’t_. He certainly wasn’t devoid of the capacity.

Playing with the shapes dizzying his vision was ample entertainment for only a few minutes at best. He was too scared to even move his arms to scratch the itch budding at the tip of his nose. He’d admit it--turning around to see if Freddie was awake was daunting. The animalistic way in which Freddie had snarled and bit the night before had Connor brimming with trepidation at the thought of looking him in the eye and saying, well, _anything_. The last thing he wanted was to end up on his back, bench-pressed into the mattress’ hold again.

But God, was it time-consuming just working to find an imperfection on the wall to latch onto, or counting how many times the crow outside the window sang his pitchy song. Eventually, the thought of making some noise to make it apparent that he was awake warmed up to him. He’d cough, or stretch, or do something and couldn’t have the blame pinned on him, that was just normal, human things. Goalies probably understood it.

Of course, Freddie was forming a lasso around his torso, so his only option was to kick his arms and legs out and crank his neck back until it cranked. The back of his head hit a protrusion square-on, probably Freddie’s nose if the grunts were anything to go by, and Connor heard a few sniffles accompany the motion.

“Freddie?” he prompted, voice no more than a squeak. His hands curled into fists, knees bending in anticipation of, well, something bad.

Freddie made another louder, more purposeful grunt. It answered the question, but didn’t continue or lead to any meaningful conversation. If he was going to play the mute, Connor was by no means obliged to criticize him, but he was beginning to go stir-crazy and wasn’t going to let noises or one-word replies hold him here.

“I, uh--gotta take a leak,” he said, not entirely lying. “I know you want me here, but could I just go to the bathroom for a minute?” He put on his most appealing, cavity-inducing media voice, trying to reason as best he could.

Something must have clicked, because the arms constraining his lungs were snaking back, giving him the freedom to kick his legs out and scoot around Freddie’s blocky form, towards the end of the bed where the goalie equipment was piled up. The pads alone stacked up so high that there was no crack he could penetrate. He couldn't just pinch the top and scoot it either. Instead, he was demoted to ballet dancer performing the _Nutcracker_ as he twirled up and around, plummeting on the other side to freedom. He tiptoed around the stick laying inconspicuously near the headrest, ducking through the door to the ensuite, Freddie’s eyes on him the entire time.

The first thing he did was turn the bathroom fan on to obscure the noises he’d make. The phone he’d shoved down his pant leg, the cumbersome fucking square digging into the meat of his thigh for the last half hour, was finally retrieved and he jumbled to use the keypad before realizing he had no idea what he was doing.

Calling the police was his mind’s first thought running on autopilot, but this was by no definition an emergency of any kind. The next was management or the trainers, but further investigation proved he had none of their numbers in his contacts, because he could remember thinking he wouldn’t need them and if he did he could just call a teammate. It was _probably_ mandatory, but he wasn’t injury or media-prone, so it didn’t make sense to past Connor. Stupid, _stupid_. His opaque stupidity had kicked him to the curb for the first and final time.

The only people that had knowledge on a nesting goalie and they were out of--

A xylophone solo dragged behind his forehead, his teammates' profiles flying in front of his pupils at warp speed. One in particular beamed out at full-strength, his dimples alone clinging to a hope liquidating his bones.

His head produced a triumphant noise, something like a computer boot-up. The group chat was in lieu of all the team’s numbers--with some guest appearances from Marlies call-ups, and from there he was able to pick up Curtis’ cell.

His hands were shaking when the call ended, the inflow of new information further prompting a state of distress. He was in way over his head here.

“C’mon, c’mon pick up, please pick up,” he muttered into the receiver, making hurried looks in the direction of the door. It did what doors did and stood still, obscuring the image of a goalie lounging on the other side, seconds ticking by in his internal clock.

“H’llo?” a voice slurred back, sleep-drunk after a minute of waiting.

Connor felt his lungs nearly collapse in relief. “Mac! Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up or--”

“Brownie, is that you? Why are you calling me at six-thirty in the morning?” Curtis interrupted, an underlying tinge of annoyance painting his voice dark. On any regular day Connor would comply with his unspoken plea and hang up but he was borderline desperate. It botched his moral sense of right and wrong with an axe.

“It’s an emergency and I didn’t know who else to call. It’s--about Freddie.” He looked back at the door and could swear he heard movement. He backed up a few steps to put a wall of safety between them both, with only the shower curtain for a barricade.

“What about him?” Curtis clasped back, dangerously close to snapping.

Everything jutted out like water thrown over Niagra Falls. A watery noise wavered over the line, the only thing Connor could manage as words sat on the back burner for a minute. 

“I’ve been stuck here for the whole night and he’s not letting me go. I need help, okay? I know it was stupid but--”

“Wait, wait, hang on." Curtis' pitch sobered up. "You’re at Freddie’s?”

“Yes.”

“He’s nesting!” Curtis exclaimed, suddenly alert. The anger he was sure would come barreling face-first towards him had Connor scrambling to justify his actions.

“I know! And like--it was Bettle’s idea. Freddie forgot his wallet on the bus so they wanted me to ferry it over and when I got here he saw me and now I’m inside and I don’t know what to do. Please help.” His voice cracked, breathing accelerating on cue.

Curtis huffed out a dark exhale, from the looks of it glossing over his options with a fresh coat of paint. “Okay, okay." His voice came out with a hefty gust. "Calm down. I’ll be over in an hour or two with food and we’ll sort things out. Just hang on until then.”

An hour or two was much too long. Connor lunged at the coattails of Curtis' voice, looking for a reason to keep him on the line.

“And how do I make him stop biting?”

For a second there was no note on the other end, then a “he bit you?”

“Yes! All over my chest and neck. It’s ridiculous.” He knew Curtis couldn’t see, but he still took a pause to glance at himself in the mirror, inspecting the barrage of purple and red that made him feel sick to his stomach.

Curtis nervously buzzed. “It’s _very_ obscure for a goalie to bite--we see it as savage behaviour. It’s--uh--learned. Okay, I’ll call Gibson about that and see.”

“How do I make him stop?”

“You can’t make him stop, per se. Goalies that bite do so because they’re juvenile and there’s no control. Just follow his lead; do what he says and he shouldn’t bite. He will at least have the recognition to know he’s hurting you if you protest enough.”

Connor held his face in one hand, a moan slipping out between his fingers. “That’s still not reassuring.”

“Just lay low, let him look after you. He won’t hurt you.”

“Besides biting?”

“Besides biting. He’s going to want to protect you. Don’t let anyone else in the house or he’ll attack them," Curtis posted, like reading from his grocery list. "You stay safe now. I’ll contact the trainers too. We’ll work things out. For now--”

“Lay low. Got it. Thanks, Mac.”

“Anytime. See you soon.”

He had a few minutes of liberation left and used it to finally alleviate his bladder and wash the worst of last night’s buildup from his face and hands. His phone, for all its worth, was useless so long as he had a time limit hanging over his head. And said fact was more pronounced when the door needlessly jolted as Connor was washing his hands with a bar of soap and revealed Freddie, shoulders hiked high and eyes wide.

“Hey, Fred--” Freddie took ahold of his arm and herded him back towards the room, pushing Connor forward once they’d entered so that he was face-to-face with the nest again. The goalie stick had been disturbed, and he got the vision of Freddie masquerading him as a substitute shepherd.

It wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d thought of all day. That was the most concerning part.

 

By afternoon, Connor was thoroughly sick of looking at the stagnant white blinds. Freddie had the patience of a saint to maintain holding him for three hours straight but to be fair, even he got the occasional exercise by standing up sporadically and cleaning the room via whatever dusters and window cleaners he could pop out from his filing-cabinet like dresser drawers. Connor had thought he would’ve dozed off just watching him dust the grand windowsill, but whenever he looked up and over his shoulder Freddie’s pupils were skirting back and forth, trying to measure a threat that wasn’t there. When Freddie was back in the nest, his hold never faltered--if anything it got stronger, fuelled by a puncture of adrenaline fogging up his esophagus. 

Freddie had practiced intertwining their legs to further prohibited movement, likely the reaction to Connor throwing his jeans over the padded side of the nest when he'd had a momentary relapse and stood to readjust his pads. It wasn't him testing the limits either: the unforgiving scratch on his abdomen had driven him mad over the course of one evening. He's succeeded with removing both them and his simple tee before Freddie developed a sense of his little escapade and pressed him back down, licking the stamps of his accomplishment with a small nip that stilled Connor in place.

Connor could feel pins and needles throughout his body and he hated how the carbonated sensation made his whole body feel like television static. Everything, from the pillow covers to the comforter was stuffy and hot enough to make a camel sweat. The remaining blankets felt like stones and he could hear every throaty growl Freddie made under them, which only served to heighten his annoyance.

Then, out of the blue, the growls deepened and Freddie’s clawed fingernails hooked into him. He huffed, expecting a police car siren or something equally as stupid to have set him off, but to his surprise what transpired were two consistent knocks, from the front door if the placement of sound was correct.

Freddie exploded, for lack of a better word. He curled up, sucking Connor in and half-screaming nonsense like a mad dog. Connor didn’t know what to do--he didn’t know if it was Curtis at the door or some stranger picking a fight they couldn’t win. Either way, he hoped they left soon because it was getting hard to breathe again.

“Freddie? It’s Curtis, I’m here with food,” the voice said and thank the heavens Freddie was able to comprehend it was no threat to him and release Connor. He didn’t falter though, immediately grabbing his stick and helmet. When Connor tried to follow Freddie growled and instinctively, Connor flinched.

It did, well, something. Freddie’s facial expression smoothed over. He nosed at Connor’s neck for a second to reassure him, then went on his way once he was sure Connor was no longer startled. The gesture was kind as is, but if Freddie would go ahead and bite Connor, he wasn’t sure what he would do to Curtis ( _though the mask might actually useful at stopping an attempt of cannibalism_ , his inner voice sang).

“Connor?” a voice cried, and that wasn’t Curtis. It couldn’t be, because that matronly hum could only be his _mother_. 

Connor shot up, barely mindful that he was bare-chested in boxers and nowhere near acceptable to greet company. The childish urge inside of him could only recognize mom’s voice, and the incessant determination to go to her overpowered any survival instinct he had left.

He flew around the corner and hit Freddie in the back, who had the ingenious idea of stopping dead in the hallway. The initial hit winded Connor, but he was able to make a quick recovery and be met with two pale faces on the other end of the hall, one of which was looking at him with a mixture of relief and pure dread.

“Connor!” she said again.

“Mom! What are you doing here?” Connor looked to Curtis for an explanation, but the veteran tossed his head, brows furrowed.

“She insisted on coming, I’m sorry.” Though Connor (inwardly) was grateful, Freddie was not. He swung his stick, nearly hitting the wall in an effort he supposed to scare off the intruders. His mother took a step back and Curtis assumed the front position.

“Freddie,” he tried, voice steady despite the tense situation. “I’m just here to bring food. Mrs. Brown is of no threat to you. We’re just going to drop this off and go.”

“We are?” she cried. “Look at his chest!” Curtis shot her a look as Connor crimped inward, trying to hide the worst of the bruises.

“Freddie won’t hurt him, won’t you Freddie?” Curtis said. The goalie looked appalled at the thought, another growl budding in the back of his throat.

“See? It’s just nesting. They’ll be fine. I’ll be around to check up on them.”

His mother threw Curtis' hand off, and Connor would have reprimanded her rudeness if there weren’t bigger issues at hand. The veteran goalie wasn't one to be deterred though, and shoved her behind him the second she dared to make progress through the no man's land shrinking in length between them.

Curtis turned to them. “Freddie, I talked to Gibson.” Freddie reared back. Curtis waited before he continued. “I know he taught you differently, but we don’t bite here. I know you’ve never done nesting before,” and that got a surprised noise from Connor, “but it’s too violent. Connor will be nice. But you need to treat him with respect. That’s how we nest here.”

Curtis nodded at Freddie and waited until the starter nodded back before he began to depart.

“Mrs. Brown,” Curtis said; the only indication he gave before pushing her back. She dropped the package she had been swinging in one arm, it falling to the floor with a plop. Freddie’s nose scrunched up in a skeptical sniff that made him look like a cat, despite being feet away.

“Oh Connor, honey, I made sandwiches. Please eat them!” she said, as she was quite literally carried out of the door. Or at least, looked it. Freddie was a wall in his path, not yielding even when Connor dug his heels into the ground and pushed.

Connor then tried weaselling through the gap between Freddie's arms and the ground to get a flash of his mother's muddied face before the door closed, but Freddie recognized rather early that it was an escape attempt and hooked an arm around him to bring him back to the room.

“Hey,” Connor tried, “can we at least get the sandwiches?” But Freddie continued hauling him back without acknowledging a word he said. Connor whined as the bedroom door swarmed his vision.

“Please? I’m hungry.” Missing dinner and breakfast was making him ravenous. He’d probably salivate at being served a plate of spam at that instant in time.

Freddie was at least courteous enough to consider his request before continuing with pushing him down the hall. Connor pulled a dissatisfied face as he was quite literally thrown into the bed. Ironically, Freddie departed as soon as Connor was safely back in the nest, returning moments later with the paper bag. Didn’t look too happy about it though, pecking away at the bag with jealous little eyes by virtue of how it captivated Connor's attention span.

Well he’d just have to deal with it. If Freddie wasn’t going to make him food then he’d gladly take the meatloaf sandwich and try not to feel homesick while he was eating it.

 

He’d lived through another night at the Andersen residence, but it came at the cost of his personal comfort. After twenty-four hours pressed up against Freddie he wanted a break beyond using the toilet to relieve himself (and it technically didn’t count, because Freddie had taken to following him inside the ensuite now like an overly attached cat and it made pissing ten times more awkward than it needed to be).

The heat meant sweat, and sweat was sticky and built up like grime on the skin. He felt filthy and his hair fell limp with grease, which was probably a bad sign. The last time he showered was post-game and that was far too long for a sports athlete of their calibre. He didn’t know how to go about mentioning it in the afternoon though, because Freddie was acting more angsty than usual.

Connor had learned that staving off boredom came at the expense of another level of comfort and self-awareness. He was so starved for social contact beyond the rare one-word answers Freddie gave and was trying out a new improvisational game he cordially nicknamed _talking to an imaginary friend to avoid going insane._

And it was less true to the title than he expected. It started off as him acting as though he were talking to his mother and father, filling them in on his failures during game six and the overpowering embarrassment that came at the expense of failing in front of the Leafs nation. It changed to listing off his mistakes in stride on ice and then ranting about annoying members of the media that took pleasure in harassing them. Freddie listened without comment.

It wasn’t technically talking to himself with Freddie there. It was more a one-sided conversation than mad rambling and it compelled him to continue into the night, when the lack of proper lighting inside the room made his eyes have to adjust to the rapidly falling daylight. Longer days without a doubt, another sign of a season coming to a close.

“They’re talking to us like we’re five. Like, no shit Sherlock, I never thought about talking to my linemates, ever,” he sulked. Eventually, he rolled over to look Freddie in the face. “You probably understand better than any of us. Is there anything fun about being a goalie?”

No answer, but that was to be expected. The closest thing to a response was seeing Freddie's mouth clench just enough to push his lip up.

Connor moaned, head falling back on the pillow, then adjusted his head to look Freddie head-on. “Weird question, but can I shower? I don’t even care if you watch, just, please.” He held a greasy hand up for confirmation, the tips dangling close enough to Freddie's mouth to pose a threat.

Freddie blinked at him, dramatically pausing just enough to let pity take root and change his answer. The little nod he got was so minuscule but pronounced after having zero feedback response from the goalie.

Connor deflated inward in relief that died out as quickly as it had formed because Freddie didn’t let him stand--going so far as to almost obliterate Connor's chest in the process. Instead, _Freddie_ was the one that left the nest, leaving Connor behind. Again.

He moaned into the sheets. He just wanted to get this muck off of him. Why was talking to Freddie now the equivalent of talking to someone that didn’t know a lick of English?

But then he heard the tap running in the other room, and that got his ears perked up. It wasn’t the shower though. It was the tub.

Oh. Well, if Freddie was only to give up his bath, Connor wasn’t going to complain, even if he was bathing in wet dirt. He followed the noise like how a kid would the smell of a candy bar, parking himself out the door. Freddie could be heard mucking around inside the room with the bottles, so Connor didn’t want to risk upsetting him.

The door opened about ten minutes later, which was the most agonizing wait of Connor’s life. Freddie almost trampled him on the way out (because Connor decided to sit cross-legged outside the door) and upon seeing Connor easily accessible and vulnerable Freddie didn’t even question him not being in the nest and picked him up bridal style to usher him in.

Steam was rising from the luxury tub and it looked positively delectable. Connor wanted to sleep in it. Maybe bring a nice book and slide in like they did in the movies. Freddie clearly thought differently. He quite nearly dunked Connor in, clothes and all. Connor was only able to salvage his boxers by hooking his arms around Freddie’s neck and holding on for dear life.

“God! Wait--wait stop, here, wait, let me.” His legs made a loop around Freddie’s waist to ensure he wouldn’t fall. Freddie did put him down, a bit too close to the edge for his liking, but it gave him room to ensure he wouldn’t fall.

He only had his boxers on and repeated exposure to the locker room had emotionally numbed him to nakedness so he jumped right in. The temperature was just right--hot, but not enough to boil him to death. The heat worked away at his cramping muscles and eased over his bite wounds with the care Polysporin hadn’t been able to give him, and he went boneless almost immediately.

Of course, he should have expected things weren’t going to be as easy as snapping his fingers and having Freddie give him a moment of privacy. When the shirt landed beside him he should have launched his spacial awareness and done something but like a moron, he sat still and closed his eyes to give Freddie peace of mind.

Hands tangled themselves in his hair and dunked water on him and he wasn’t expecting that. He sputtered, almost falling forward and into the water. The hands remained, steadying him and pulling him into an upright position so that Freddie could slide in behind him, also as naked as the day he was born and _okay_ , they were going there.

Vowing to not turn around no matter what, Connor found a new hobby in counting how many tiles the bathroom had. They were a cool rectangle shape and glistened in the low light coming in from the window. It was ten times more interesting than focusing on the water being poured over his back and the cold texture of the shampoo being worked into his hair.

Okay, it _was_ kind of nice. Steamy, meaning it was getting all the knots out of his back but again, at the expense of his _comfort_. He supposed nesting partners were supposed to lay back and chill, but he couldn’t. The touches were nice but also different. Not a bad different, just different. He didn’t know how to feel because he was too busy accommodating Freddie’s ministrations, lifting his arms and bending over when necessary.

He’d decided, nesting was weird. Totally absurdly weird and whatever inner turmoil goalies went through was not work a week of this torment. But being at the receptive end of the spectrum, it was free food and essentially sitting down for a while (a while being the biggest understatement of the century, but he digressed).

By the end of the bathing “ritual”, he was half-asleep. Freddie had really talented hands that could work through the knots in his hair without straining or making him uncomfortable. It was just nice. Connor could think to himself without the blanket or muscle squishing him. He was almost reluctant to feel Freddie pull away and dunk his head with water to get the shampoo out of his hair because it meant getting out. Getting out of this sauna and oasis of sinful desire.

But alas, Freddie pulled the drain and slinked out from behind Connor to grab towels. Connor waited in the tub water to lower past his waist to his thighs and only tried getting up when Freddie’s hand entered his line of sight. He accepted the offering, almost slipping on the tile when his feet slid an inch as his weight distribution changed.

Freddie was there before he fell, catching him in the towel and lifting him out of the tub. It was a really fluffy towel but Connor was still riding off the small high generated from the potential fall to notice or fully appreciate it. It took a breath to reorient himself and only then did he try bending over to try and get the droplets off his legs so that he wouldn’t be as cold.

Freddie beat him to the chase, leaning over to get the excess off the various limbs exposed. As usual, assuming the leadership role. Who was Connor to complain? It meant standing still and getting pampered, then carried off to the bedroom again.

But it also meant grumbling to himself when Freddie starting combing through his hair again, this time matted as it air dried, so he assumed it was fair game.

 

“I’m really craving a chocolate finger,” he said, almost to himself. “Now that it’s the offseason and I can say fuck-all to the diet I mean, why not. They’re so crunchy and melt in your hand, and then you have to lick your fingers to get the chocolate off. That and pizza. I’d be down for eating a whole pepperoni pizza.” Freddie blinked, doing nothing for a minute.

Then he had the nerve to lean over and give Connor’s cheek a broad stroke with the brunt of his tongue. It was hot, disgustingly wet, and it made Connor’s legs twitch spastically. He tried to pull himself away but Freddie’s arms had still kept the drawbridge closed, keeping him from leaving the nest.

“I--uh, take it you want something to eat too.” And Freddie didn’t nod his head nor shake it, keeping as is. “Auston told me you have a sweet tooth. My brother does too. I mean, I like sugar but being a professional athlete you can’t indulge yourself much. Except milkshakes. Yeah, I’d like a milkshake.”

Especially a nice vanilla one you couldn’t suck through the straw. Something thick and creamy with a bright red cherry on top. Water got so monotonous after a while. Soft drinks were boring. The high from booze and alcohol was good but in the morning it had a wicked way of sucker punching you in the gut. But milkshakes were like a timid, old dog, a friend. Mild-mannered and sweet but not diabetes.

And God, he’d just referred to a beverage as an animal. He was really off his rocker. But his throat was dry nonetheless, scratchy from his snoring and lack of access to proper food.

“Would I be able to get a glass of water, Freddie?” he asked. Freddie shook his head, leaving Connor to pout. But only seconds later, Freddie was pulling himself away to abandon the nest and the man in it. Connor whined, reaching out and giggling to himself when Freddie could only bode a small smile as he departed.

It was clear he wasn’t expected to follow, so he lingered, kicking at the sheets to make himself more comfortable. There were so many blankets the nest resembled an ocean more than an actual bed, and he found that if he wiggled enough he could dive into the depths and bury himself alive. It was cushioning, like lounging on a cloud.

Freddie eventually returned, with a plate of toast in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Connor poked his head out from the covers, hair poofing over his eyes as he flashed a simple-minded grin at Freddie, groaning in gratitude. He reached out to take the glass but Freddie only knocked it away with his hip, edging around the goalie pads enforcing the nest so that he could sit down beside him.

The rim of the glass rested against the plush of his lips and he obediently took a sip. It was abundantly cold and soothed the back of his throat. He greedily swallowed more and Freddie obliged by inching closer. The smell of toast was incredible. The sweet-tinge of honey was thick in the air and lured him closer.

He finished the glass and pushed it away to signify his finish, and Freddie placed it on the bedside table alongside the other glasses, collecting a noticeable hoard of crumb-ladden dirty dishes that Connor would loathe to take care of after. By then, Freddie had retrieved a slice of toast and was anticipating Connor’s reaction but holding it level with his mouth.

He took a hesitant bite, but as the crumbs scattered his hands flew up with the intention of protecting the bedsheets. He wouldn’t want either of them to wake up in the middle of the night unable to get comfortable because they were laying on bread shrapnel.

“Careful,” he muttered around the bite. “Don’t want to get the nest dirty.” And Freddie honest to God cooed at that. Made one of his puppy dog faces where his brow was scrunched and the corners of his lips were turned.

He licked Connor’s face again, then picked up the other piece to feed Connor with. That, he paused at, looking up at Freddie.

“Don’t you need to eat too?” he said, using his hand to coax Freddie’s back in the direction of his mouth. In turn, Freddie took a bite. A small bite, but a bite nonetheless, and chewed slowly. His eyes didn’t leave Connor’s the entire time, focusing on every little detail and pulling at his insecurities. But he didn’t look away, he let Freddie take control.

Freddie only broke the look to survey the half-eaten toast. Connor laughed to himself.

“You eat it. I’ll finish this piece. If you’re gonna shove me around you’ll need the energy.” The permission granted meant Freddie digging in immediately, the display so unprofessional it was charming, in a sense.

All Connor had on his end was the crusts, which he usually wouldn’t oblige to eating because of the texture. But Freddie didn’t toast the bread to the extent where it was charcoal. It was still soft enough to swallow without the prickly feeling racing down his throat. Some crumbs ended up falling to the bed despite his caution, and he wiped them away with his right hand.

“Thanks,” he smiled up at Freddie. Freddie swallowed the scrap he’d just wolfed down and pressed their cheeks together. A noise drummed away in his throat, but it wasn’t a growl. A purr? It sounded happy and that’s what mattered.

Maybe the entire visit was driving him insane, seeing as how he willingly dropped his phone to the ground to get closer to cuddling with Freddie in the middle of the hurricane of fabric. Fuck. Well--sue him, he liked the attention. And he liked having a big strong goalie look after him.

 

He was dozing off the next morning when something blunt and hard landed on his wrist. It didn’t hurt, but it did shock him into a rigid posture. There, in front of him, was Freddie’s laptop and charger. The same one they’d bring on road trips for watching crooked movies without management, or the hotel, being notified. Since Freddie had clearly enforced a no electronics rule in the nest, it was surprising to see it in such close proximity, especially since it was on and running without a problem.

“Freddie?” he asked, squinting at the bold red font of _Netflix_ clear for all to see. “What’s this for?”

“You,” Freddie said. Connor leaned back.

“Hey, you’re talking.” He clambered to his knees, grabbing ahold of Freddie’s shoulders. “Does this mean the nesting is working?”

“Yes.” Freddie nodded for excess emphasis. His chin tilted downwards at the empty space next to Connor, and Connor inched over to make room for him to sit down. The bed dipped as Freddie sat, one hand pushing the computer away so that his legs wouldn’t force the monitor back. Connor made use of the multitude of pillows to build a freestanding structure he could rest his head with.

“So, what do you want to watch?” Connor questioned, his voice dying like defeated bagpipes at the blank expression he got in return. Freddie didn’t say anything, but he did click on the search bar to open up the results. Connor didn’t know what the hell he’d want to watch, but figured a crime or thriller would be worthy of their time.

He typed up _The Godfather_ and clicked on the thumbnail as it loaded. The visuals darkened, painting their faces in shadows. He fullscreened it immediately, leaning back and letting Freddie keep an eye on him from a close distance. From the looks of it, Freddie wasn’t interested in the movie. He was looking into the distance, eyes focusing on some unknown form pacing the room.

Connor pressed his head into him, muttering a “thank you” that Freddie could recognize with a nod of his own. As the dialogue began, the sounds clearly began to distress him; the goalie poofed up like a bandit in a western movie.

It was of little difficult to reach over to press the mute button, turning on English subtitles so that he could still follow along the plot. It was worth it to see Freddie settled again, one arm still around Connor’s waist to keep him in place in the seat of the nest, circled by nothing but Freddie's scent and visuals.

It was a nice change of pace. Connor would have to scuttle around to keep his muscles from cramping occasionally, but he had free reign over what he watched and did. The self-indulgent high school comedies and weird crime documentaries didn’t even prompt an eyebrow twitch from Freddie. It did get a bit much after the first few movies, and the noises from the overheating computer did interrupt the peace and quiet enough to pose a few grunts from Freddie, but the point still stood. There was an implicit but palpable tension growing between the both of them that Connor could just about grab.

Freddie was away getting lunch like a dutiful partner when the front door got a few unexpected bangs from the other side. Connor rose to full height, not because he was surprised, but more because he expected Freddie would not handle the intrusion kindly. A couple barks answered that thought, and Freddie stormed back into the room to grab his stick and make a face at Connor, pretty much demanding him to stay in place. Connor bowed to his whims until Freddie had slunk around the corner, then stalked out of the room to get a look--just in case he’d have to hold Freddie back.

“Hey Fred, how’re you doing?” Connor poked his head out, seeing the door open to reveal Curtis. The older man was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Nevertheless, Freddie’s posture slackened.

“Good,” Freddie said. The reply reminded him of his first night, trying to communicate with a man much too burdened with a nesting instinct to bother with proper conversation. Connor revealed himself, still not minding being in his pyjamas again.

“Hi Curtis,” he said. Freddie turned around, using his stick to push him back a few inches. Connor didn’t even mind, the image was funny enough as is.

“How’re you Brownie? I brought you two food.” He held out a paper bag that Freddie swiped without warning, still holding Connor at bay with the stick.

“I’m good. Watching Netflix,” Connor said.

“Netflix,” Curtis hummed like a captive bird. “Good sign. Hang on for a couple more days and Fred should be back to normal.”

Freddie did not move, even at being referred to in the third person. “Okay," was all he said.

The bowels of the conversation crowed. They'd dug a hole and were sitting Indian-style around it like idiots. Luckily, Curtis remained a neutral party, choosing not to gawk like a fifth-grader like Connor would be doing if the positions were flipped.

“I’ll leave you two be for now," Curtis finally said, the pause threw out into the open dissolving like sugar in coffee. "If you need anything, just give me a call.”

Connor took the responsibility of responding as Freddie grew more unhinged. "Thanks Mac." 

Curtis took leave with a little heave of his shoulders, slapping his duffle bag over one shoulder that still stunk of some fishy-smell, disrupting the sweet scent Freddie'd been working thanklessly to scrub into the walls of his place.

“And Connor?” 

He looked up with speed, blocking Curtis with a foot out the door. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for doing this. He looks well.”

The approval washed over him like a warm bath. It felt nice, more so from Curtis. He couldn’t appreciate the compliment though, because Freddie’s internal timer was up. The curve of his stick bumped into him, forcing him to take a step back, and then again.

Curtis had taken the hint. The door closed behind him, though this time it felt less like condemning Connor to his fate and more him giving privacy. Regardless, the haddock and chips Curtis had brought was a tasty reward. He didn’t even care that Freddie was force feeding him it.

_Connor,_

_I’m sorry. You can leave now._

It said nothing else, handwriting barely legible and scribbled diagonally dangerously nearing one of the corners. Connor had to squint just to read it and even then it took a minute. He thought it would be liberating when he finally had deciphered the random note left on the bedside table, but there was nothing but a hollow sadness inside of him at the thought.

The room was cold, but whether it was because of a lacking of heating or Freddie’s disappearance he had no clue. The nest was no longer secured, the goalie equipment removed from the perimetre allowing him access to the outside world. There was also a lack of a very broad goalie to keep him company too, which was more distressing than it should have been.

The house was just as hauntingly empty when he left the room, the blanket pulled tight around his shoulders forming a cape around his legs that dragged behind him on the ground. The cold, dark, emptiness that only served to make him feel worse than he already did, and that was simply put: shitty.

His next train of thought, like a jilted, desperate ex-lover, was to pull his phone out from the wreckage of the bed and call Freddie. His fingers drummed against the phone case as he waited for the phone to ring on the other end. One. Two. Three times and Freddie didn’t pick up. The voicemail answered him without any compassion for his trouble and he immediately hung up, trying to make the best out of a bad situation.

Then, his thoughts transpired to getting his bag and getting the hell out of dodge. His car was probably still parked on the side of the road, probably ticketed to hell if not towed. He wondered if they had a missing person alert out for him, seeing as how he hadn’t been exposed to the sun in days. Either possibility meant an inconvenience for him at worst or a ride home at best and potentially a police report out against his goalie.

He thought he’d leave. He’d make a run for it--put some pants on maybe--and go home and get the annoying stubble he’d grown off of his face. The scrape of the razor would be a godsend and release from this melancholy abyss of gray and white because Freddie lacked the mental capacity to decorate his apartment with anything beyond monochromatic, modern, Ikea furniture that had no personality whatsoever.

But he cozied himself back in the nest for a reason he wasn’t willing to admit. Then stole Freddie’s phone charger from its roost in the wall and plugged his phone in so that he could start watching _Youtube_ from his phone app and settle in. He pulled the blinds shut, rooted through Freddie’s drawers for his pair of slippers and let them wash over his feet. Considering he had no idea where the thermostat was in the complex the nest was useful at acting like an oversized oven. He just wanted to laze around, eat a microwave dinner, get a glass of water and maybe a milkshake

He had no idea how he did it, but he didn’t move from that spot for the whole day. Well--that maybe being a hyperbole. He did shower after gravitating to High School Musical Three and getting half-way through before deciding he smelled like death. Sure, it was Freddie’s condo but Freddie’s condo had buttered popcorn and Danish-brand coffee that, when brewed, reminded him of what his cottage’s local forest smelled like after a particularly bashful rainfall-dirt but not dirt. A tasty kind of dirt that sunk in the bottom of his stomach and kept him warm and fuzzy up to his toes.

So he had a quick shower, giving the bath a single glance and mentally apologizing when he used Freddie’s shampoo again. He made his own makeshift nest, one that was a heck of a lot warmer because he turned the lights on and made a collection of bowls with various sweet treats to munch on as he worked away at bad television dramas and musicals from the dark ages. They were unbearable but in a way, that was the appeal. He was compelled to keep going just to see how bad they could be.

That’s where Freddie found him, hours later. Half-way through a can of ginger ale and munching on some party mix as a shitty high school drama blared in front of him. He’d made sure to not get crumbs on the mattress but he couldn’t say the same for the circumference of the bed. He’d jolted when the door first opened, because the sound of the movie had drowned out the front door opening.

“Connor,” Freddie said, eyeing him carefully. He looked like a startled, stray cat.

“Hi Freddie,” he said, holding one of the bowls up. “Want some?”

“What are you doing here? You were supposed to go home. You weren’t--” his voice was choppy, like someone had cut it with wire cutters before he could finish the sentence. When he couldn’t find the words to tell Connor off, he clenched his fist and rushed towards him like he was about to smash his head open. Either way, it spooked Connor into moving backwards and knocking over the bowl in the process.

“Shit! Sorry, I’ll uh--clean that up. I’m actually here to talk.” His hands swept up the cheetos and pretzels scattering the white bedsheets like stars in the night sky. Freddie’s hand planted itself on top of his, pressing it down and forcing Connor to look up and face him head-on.

“Connor. You should go,” he rasped.

“Freddie, I talked with Curtis,” he reasoned. “He said you’d be nesting for a week minimum. It’s only been four days. You need to stay here with me.” Freddie’s hand smeared his eyes and nose in a windshield-wiper motion.

“You were supposed to run. Being here, with me. It’s not--I’m dangerous.”

“You’re not dangerous, you’re nesting. It’s a perfectly normal reaction--”

“It’s inhumane and terrible.” He leaned forward, head in his hands. “I hate myself.”

“You shouldn’t hate yourself.” Connor stuck his head in the gap between Freddie’s arms, forcing him to hold Connor’s head up close. “It’s perfectly normal. I’m not mad at you.”

“You should be,” Freddie croaked. “I took advantage of you.” Even still his hands closed in around Connor to keep him there. It was a less extreme version of the nesting-hold, as he’d come around to calling it. It grounded Connor, sewed him into the present moment where he couldn’t be distracted.

Connor rolled over, bringing Freddie with him. He crashed down into the bed beside Connor, giving him only a second to react so that he wasn’t crushed again under the weight of _Freddie_.

“I like being here with you. I like being looked after,” Connor said. And it was true. Because again, there was something nice to be said about laying back and letting someone care for you.

At that, Freddie moved a hand up to pet his hair down, pupils fuzzy around the edges with a special kind of warmth reserved for Connor. The complex, untackled mess between them was leaking out through the gaps between them, however small. Either way, it made him cuddle closer, anxious to feel the burn only he could illicit inside of him.

All Connor could do was hum to himself, let Freddie smoothe over the hickeys on his neck with his tongue--still responding to his nesting instinct. All that self-restraint and anxiety came out of the floodgates in a surge, and the tongue soothing escalated to little kisses and nips. None of them were as violent as the barrage from before though, so Connor was able to tolerate it.

"Just let me look at you," Freddie said, hand sliding up his chin to tilt his head up and give himself more room to work with. "You--you calm me. I can talk when you’re here.”

“Okay,” Connor bit back, trembling when the goalie stroked a thumb over his throat, marking down the placement of the black and blue bruises. He'd spent so many nights with that hand around his waist that now, on his neck, the emotion inside of him was conflicted at best. “Are you feeling better today?”

Freddie ignored him, leaning into pepper kisses against Connor’s long neck, making his legs kick out. "You're such a beautiful hockey player. You belong in a nest with me, where I can keep you safe.”

Freddie continued talking. "I knew I would have you. I knew you would be mine when I saw you at the door. I just wished it had been nicer. That I could sway you like you deserve. Like how I know you want.” And that made him think of flowers, three-course meal dinners, and heart-shaped chocolates.

It didn’t sound that appetizing, but he was willing to make an exception with Freddie.

It was the nesting talking. The weird, reclusive part in Freddie’s brain that was talking nonsense to cope with the loss and the absurd pressure goalies had to fight on a daily basis. But Connor would be lying if he said it didn’t rouse a happy little part inside of him that was longing for the attention.

Freddie was periodically taking turns squeezing in with his arms and rubbing circles, establishing a pattern. Every now and again he’d hum or speak a few words to keep his vocal chords intact before returning to the emotionless wall he’d kept detained the whole afternoon. It must’ve been like holding a pack of cigarettes away from a smoker trying to quit; maddeningly tempting.

“Freddie?” he asked, an unknown amount of time later. Freddie hummed in acknowledgement. “You don’t have to hide from me. If you need to nest, then nest.”

The hug he got in return was enough.

“I’m sorry I bit you,” Freddie whispered into his neck. “I just had to. When I’m nesting it’s like--” he pulled away, looking into the distance, “I’m watching a movie. I just follow along. And I kept telling myself I had to bite so that you wouldn’t hurt yourself.” His big thumbs pressed into Connor’s collarbone, tracing the marks.

“Okay, the biting was a bit much but I mean, you stopped. I think you understood.” Freddie looked a bit bashful at that.

“Y-Yeah, well, sometimes I could intervene. Here, let me make it up to you. If you stay here I can make you that pizza you wanted.” Connor froze.

“Wait, you remember that?” Freddie laughed to himself, but he looked a bit uncomfortable.

“I remember everything,” he said, and Connor dead-stopped because he talked about a _lot_ of things. Not that he didn’t take advantage of a captive audience but, well, it was his turn to be embarrassed.

“I’m--sorry,” he squeaked, but Freddie put a finger to his lips.

“I should be the one apologizing. I don’t know what I’m doing and you’re--you’re the best. The best nesting partner. So patient.” He kissed Connor’s hands tenderly. “Please let me do whatever I can to make it up for you.”

Well, if he was allowed to be self-indulgent.

“You know, it’s weird, but I’m really craving a vanilla milkshake.”

“A vanilla milkshake?” Freddie hooked a single eyebrow. “Picky.”

Connor placed his head on Freddie’s shoulder, turning it into the side so that he could huff into the skin and inhale the stupidly human smell he'd come to appreciate. Nothing happened for a moment, then Freddie grinned into the top of Connor's head.

“I think I have milk and vanilla ice cream in my fridge,” he said, poking at Connor’s side, and Connor smiled.

“I could kiss you,” he said, face-to-face with Freddie, because he honestly could. It would be so easy. But he didn’t need to, because Freddie beamed like a child on Christmas morning: and honestly, it did more than a kiss ever could.

 

It still took another two days to convince Freddie to go outside but hey, small victories. Not bad for a first timer.

**Author's Note:**

> got a new tumblr, come talk to me at @cursivecherrypicking or follow me for updates on future stories. :]


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